"For the last six months of my grandfather's life, my mornings had a rhythm: wake up, check on Papa, get him coffee, and make sure he took his medicine. After my grandmother died in September 2024, it was just my Papa and me in the house where I grew up. That's when I truly stepped into the caregiver role. When he passed in December 2025, the schedule that had governed my days vanished."
"I was Papa's granddaughter who stayed close to home. I stopped making plans or going on trips. I built my life around being here. I didn't resent it; I loved him, and I was honored to be there. But now that he's gone, I don't know how to be anything else. Being there for him felt like the most natural thing in the world."
"Within two years of moving back, I lost my grandmother to lung cancer, and my Papa was diagnosed with prostate and bladder cancer. After a short hospital stay in July 2025, he decided against treatment. By November, he was in hospice. That's when everything changed. I don't love calling myself a "caregiver," because that word feels clinical. I was his granddaughter who loved him. After my Nana died, being there for Papa felt like a badge of honor."
After six months of caring for her dying grandfather, daily routines and responsibilities defined life around mornings, medication, meals and companionship. The grandmother's death left the granddaughter as primary support, and hospice care followed when the grandfather declined treatment. After his death, the prior schedule vanished and silence and the absence of calls created disorientation. Plans and travel were put aside to remain nearby, producing a sense of identity tied to caregiving. The granddaughter feels guilt about wanting to rebuild life and travel despite the grandfather's encouragement to live fully, and regrets not maintaining clearer boundaries that might have helped both.
Read at Business Insider
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